worstsin | (no subject)

There was something wrong happening.

At first Geralt had avoided the woods, because it felt like that off-ness was concentrated there. The birds and insects had gone quiet at first, and soon after they'd started to flee to the forest's edges. Though autumn had barely begun, in some areas Geralt found trees turning rusty, leaves dying off.

That had been at first, and from there things had gotten wronger.

When Geralt realized what was happening, he went to the woods. He worried it had no longer become an issue of protecting himself until he managed to leave Darrow, but of protecting Darrow potentially from himself.

Whatever corruption existed in the forest, growing and spreading, it affected his body, and his mind. It had twisted itself around the witcher mutations, had expressed them in new ways, or simply more.

And so Geralt was back at his old camp. Hiding, biding time, and keeping a baleful eye on the situation. He ought to do something about it, but what? What could he do, when he didn't even understand what was happening to himself?

He sat beside the fire, hunkered over an evening meal in a foulest mood. His skin was paler than usual, dark veins standing out against the white. All of his senses screamed. He gripped his dinner in hands that had begun to end in blackened, pointed nails, that reminded Geralt too much of Regis. That was the bruxa in him, no doubt, a fact that he wanted to put little thought into, if he could avoid it.

The canines that filled his mouth too much more than they used to, those were likely more attributable to a manticore mutagen.

And the fact that he had made dinner of a squirrel, and had not felt the bother or desire to cook it, that Geralt wanted to put thought into even less.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

shok_ebasit_hissra

Bull grunted when Geralt landed on his back. He pushed up so he could grab Geralt's legs, wrapping his arms around them however he could to try to trap the witcher against his body.

He threw his weight back, intent on slamming Geralt to the ground with his full weight. When Dorian had flung himself onto his back at fight club, Bull had been gentle. He was too drunk to think hard about what he was doing.

Hopefully landing on Geralt wouldn't crush all the man's ribs.

From:

worstsin

They landed, backward rather than forward, and Geralt couldn't help but think it had been intentionakl, the way an angry or frightened horse would kick the rider, landing on them.

It was hard. Geralt could hear his bones creek, but he'd been crushed by larger, and his body survived it. He still coughed. The hit, along with the meal and the booze, gave him acid reflux. It only made him more worked up.

He struggled under Bull's bulk for a few seconds, before gathering up every ounce of strength he had, and throwing him off. He wouldn't throw very far. It was still enough to give Geralt freedom again.

"Sonnuvabitch."

From:

shok_ebasit_hissra

Geralt's strength came as a surprise - Bull hadn't had any reason to grapple with him before now and so hadn't had any real way of gauging what Geralt was capable of.

He didn't go far but he hit the ground hard, not quite catching himself. Bull used his own momentum to try to scramble back up. This time he stood but stayed low; his center of gravity could be a problem. Krem used it against him all the time. Pain in his ass.

From:

worstsin

Geralt launched himself at the larger man again, his shoulder against the lower part of the man's sternum and his belly. He gave a shove, again with his witcher strength. He gave a deep growl of effort.

"Just fall."

From:

shok_ebasit_hissra

Bull braced himself, leaning over Geralt when the man shouldered into him, hard. It forced the air out of him, which didn't help the already light-headed feeling the maraas-lok gave him.

The next shove made him slide, but Bull grabbed Geralt around the middle, trying to keep his balance. If he was going down, Geralt was coming with him.

Just fall.

A tremor shivered through his chest and Bull started laughing, low and rich. Geralt's frustration, not all that different from Krem's or Dorian's, sparked it. Bull had been fighting mages for... a long time. Geralt wasn't quite that, but he wasn't far off with his tricks. Bull was just stubborn.

Edited Date: 2017-09-25 05:55 am (UTC)

From:

worstsin

Geralt's growl got louder and more feral when, rather than being shoved backward and over, Bull leaned over him, planting his feet and resting his entire weight on Geralt's much narrower form. He was, frankly, just too damn tall.

Then he had the nerve to start laughing like an idiot.

Frustration peaking, Geralt suddenly slammed himself to the ground, his fist connecting with the damp, littered forest floor. The spell swept out of him again, flashing the area with pale blue light. The magic blast sent leaves fluttering in all directions, knocked Geralt's pots and pans about and knocked his swords over where they leaned against the tree.

The apples scattered, the fire spluttered out.

Edited Date: 2017-09-25 06:03 am (UTC)

From:

shok_ebasit_hissra

The spell threw Bull back, nearly made him tumble ass over horns but he grabbed at the forest floor, digging his fingers in to avoid that roll.

Bull hit a smaller tree nearby, making the whole thing shiver and sending leaves falling. He grunted as he sat up, a little dazed after that one.

He huffed another laugh. "That was a good one," he rumbled in the dark.

From:

worstsin

Geralt stood, brushing the dirt and detritus off of his knuckles, watching Bull at the tree with low-lidded eyes. They could go on, if Bull felt it was necessary. Geralt had a prodigious stamina, for what he lacked in any other areas.

He kept watching, waiting for any potential sneak attack.

Geralt breathed in and out, evenly, but shallowly, the way that a cat might while scenting prey, seeing a chipmunk in the yard. The campsite smelled like adrenaline, like rushing blood, and something particular to the Iron Bull that Geralt could only liken to draconid pheromones.

He made an odd noise in the back of his throat, began to will himself calm.

From:

shok_ebasit_hissra

Bull, however, stayed still, his back pressed against the small tree. He watched Geralt in the dark, still grinning and feeling more satisfied.

He could smell the witcher, maybe not as well as Geralt could smell him, but he wasn't unaware of the other man's excitement and adrenaline. The Bull just sat there, relaxing and breathing, allowing himself to come down from the rush of a good fight. Now he wondered what it'd be like to fight Geralt sober.

They might have to try it.

Bull waited until Geralt's heartbeat sounded calmer and he got up slowly to shuffle back toward the fire pit.

"You gonna light that again?"

From:

worstsin

Geralt rolled his yellow eyes at Bull, pupils large from excitement, from the dark. But he also made an odd, restrained sound of pleasure in the back of his throat. It had been a good fight, against something he'd never fought before. Short, maybe, but Geralt felt better for it, more relaxed, out of his own head and the heavy, malignant thoughts that bred there on nights alone like this.

"Mm," he murmured, and gave a snap of his fingers. The campfire flared back to life again, crackling merrily and smelling like maple smoke as it had been minutes before.

"Just .. gimme a minute. Got to come down."

From:

shok_ebasit_hissra

"Mmhm," he hummed his agreement, or acquiescence. Still, the big Qunari closed the space between them, deliberate in his movement, projecting it rather than attempting any stealth: he was not approaching to continue the fight.

He held Geralt's gaze and gently gripped the back of the witcher's neck. Instead of a full blown headbutt, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against Geralt's, the gesture downright affectionate. He went so far as to close his eye, expressing trust.

A smirk tugged his mouth. "Taarsidath-an halsaam."

Bull chuckled quietly and squeezed Geralt's neck before he released him and stepped back. He gave the witcher his space and sank down by the fire, settling once more with his left leg outstretched.

From:

worstsin

Geralt watching Bull move closer with curiosity, only stiffening for a moment when the man touched him. He wasn't accustomed to a touch of any kind of friendly tenderness, outside of Vesemir, Dandelion, Regis, a small number of others. He didn't dislike it, but it remained strange to him.

But the Bull's eyes slid closed, an expression of trust, like a huge grey puma. Geralt breathed out slowly, calmly.

He watched the other man pull away with baffled curiosity on his face once again. He didn't speak or understand any of the language that Bull spoke, only that it reminded him of some of the tongues used in Ofier.

"Vaer'trouv, tierth."

Edited Date: 2017-09-25 06:41 am (UTC)

From:

shok_ebasit_hissra

Even drunk, Bull's natural curiosity kicked in. He lolled his head to look up at Geralt.

"What'd that mean?"

He figured if he asked for a translation he was opening himself up to have to offer the same, and that was fine. He was deep enough into the maraas-lok to be willing to attempt to translate Qunlat.

From:

worstsin

Geralt blinked slowly.

"It means -- sort of -- good fight, wild boar. Don't know the word for bull in the Elder Speech. Or dragon. Bet Ciri would know."

But Ciri wasn't in Darrow. Geralt hiccuped again, before making his way closer to the fire, and looking for the jug of alcohol again. He would have a few more swigs, before -- hopefully -- a restful sleep.

"Language of the elves. We call them the Elder Folk. So their tongue's the Elder Speech."

From:

shok_ebasit_hissra

Bull huffed a laugh. "Could do worse than a boar," he said. "If you remember dragon, you can use that. Ataashi." Bull drew out the word and he nearly fell backward.

He caught himself on his hands, bracing his weight to help keep his balance.

"Mmm, Taarsidath-an halsaam roughly translates to... I will bring myself sexual pleasure later while thinking about this with great respect. Qunlat is hard to do straight translations for."

From:

worstsin

Geralt choked on the swig he was taking of the maaras-lok and put the jug aside, coughing and wiping at his mouth.

"You're not even dicking me around, are you?" he asked. But then, bubbling up from somewhere that seemed to be forgotten utterly when he was sober, Geralt gave an honest laugh.

It wasn't the worst compliment he'd ever been given, frankly. It sounded much more reverential, and much less asinine, but such a thing wouldn't have been strange to hear out of Lambert's mouth.

Followed but an, "but ugh, don't fall in love with me."

Geralt felt boneless and exhausted, now that the adrenaline was fleeing his system, thanks to a witcher metabolism.

From:

shok_ebasit_hissra

"Pretty sure the last time I said that was to a dragon we'd just killed," Bull said with a lazy grin. "And I definitely meant it. Dragons."

Dorian probably would have hit him by now. He missed the mage, wished he was here even though he knew he would try to be wildly inappropriate with him. He huffed a laugh.

"I think we'll be alright," he rumbled. His own body calmed down and Bull finally gave in to gravity and flopped onto his back with a quiet grunt.

He stuck his left leg in Geralt's general direction.

"Hey, you got the dexterity to get this thing off right now?"

From:

worstsin

"Yeah," Geralt said, despite having just drank even more. He meant it, though. Even drunk, he could sober himself fast enough and to the point to hunt a gharkain, when he'd needed to.

He stood and knelt by Bull's leg, giving the brace a strange, lingering look, before unbuckling it and pulling it off.

He set it down, careful and reverential, with his swords and other valuables.

"They're mostly extinct, where I come from. Not necessarily because of witchers. We don't kill dragons, they seldom hurt anyone. Not the sentient ones. Draconids are another story, although those are also disappearing. It's the irony of the trade. The better we do our work, the faster we put ourselves out of it."

Edited Date: 2017-09-25 07:14 am (UTC)

From:

shok_ebasit_hissra

"Dragons disappeared for a while, or they seemed to. The Divine in the south declared it the Dragon Age when all of a sudden they seemed to come back. Not just dragons and drakes, but high dragons - females old enough to breed. They go on rampages before holing up and nesting. My people think of dragons as the embodiment of raw, natural power. There are no gods in the Qun, but we revere dragons."

Which made that whole rumor about dragon blood even stronger.

"Thank you." Bull flexed his leg after the brace was off, breathing through the discomfort. If Dorian was here, he'd be tutting and insisting on ice or a heat pad, or just trying to ease the pan himself. Bull had given up on protesting long ago.

"The Chargers got a lot of jobs monster hunting. The corrupted ones were the worst. Fucking demons."

Edited Date: 2017-09-25 07:20 am (UTC)

From:

worstsin

Geralt thought it strange, to revere dragons, but it wasn't. There were cults or every kind, especially at the edges of the civilized world. Likely, he only had the consideration because Geralt did not revere anything. He and Nenneke had gone through conversation about it far too many times, when he was younger.

He missed her, too often, even now.

"Gotta revere something, guess dragons is a place to go."

Geralt sighed and moved closer to the fire, closer to the heat. He propped his leg up near it and held his hands out to it.

"Want me to do something for that leg? I have a willow bark tea, some valerian."

From:

shok_ebasit_hissra

"If it doesn't involve magic, yes. Got experience with that?" he asked when he noticed Geralt propping one of his own legs up closer to the fire, closer to the heat.

Bull knew that move intimately. More than once Krem or someone else had warned him that he was going to burn himself doing that, but having a damp rag over his leg and keeping it close to the heat always felt like sweet relief - the closest he could get outside a hot bath or letting a mage at it.

From:

worstsin

Geralt gave a slow, reserved nod. It had been a very long time since anyone had asked. Possibly because they either knew, or they were too unobservant to notice.

He reached for his leather rucksack, searching for the tisane that would help.

"Shattered femur. Healed off. Wasn't a great chapter in my life."

Finding the packet of powder, leaves and roots, he dumped it into a copper cup and set it on the ashes at the very edge of the fire to boil.

"It's only magic if you consider a strong working knowledge of pharmacopoeia to be magic. Part of the training, at least a little bit. Had a good tutor once too."

The thought of Nenneke gave him a brief ache.

From:

shok_ebasit_hissra

"No, not the same. Nothing green and glowing is about to touch my leg."

Bull appreciated the mages that had healed him in the past, but a lifetime of learning to be unnerved by magic and being vulnerable while it was being used on him was still uncomfortable.

And to be fair, Bull didn't even like submitting to regular healers. Stitches had always needed to track him down.

"It's taken a while to re-learn the names of plants here, and some things that I had to work with in Thedas don't even exist. But I think Dorian has seeds to plant."

Bull looked down at his leg and absently flexed his foot.

"Got hit hard in a fight. Stitches did what he could, but something didn't heal right. Happened after I lost the eye. Still my weak side." He held up his left hand, revealing that the very tips of his fourth and fifth fingers, cut off at the third knuckle.

From:

worstsin

"Not very good with healing spells anyway. Usually just use potions on myself. They work a hell of a lot faster and better. Would kill you, though."

Geralt reconsidered, narrowing his eyes at Bull in thought. He shook the little copper cup with a stick of green wood. It was starting to form little bubbles in the water.

"Maybe not you, but a human. Got a story to share about the eye?"

From:

shok_ebasit_hissra

"You remember Krem? My lieutenant that helped us out with the kelpie?"

Bull knew damn well that Geralt probably wasn't the kind of guy that forgot a face. Especially not the face of a man that showed up in full armor and a maul the size of Smash. Never mind the work Krem had actually done on the kelpie itself.

But it was a good preface.

"I was with another mercenary group, Fisher's Bleeders, and we were in a border town on the edge of the Tevinter Imperium, just killing time between jobs, spending money in every place of ill repute we could find. I walk into a tavern and find a Tribune and group of Tevinter soldiers surrounding this kid they had pinned on the floor, trying to strip him."

Bull could imagine what would have happened to Krem once the soldiers discovered his secret. He hadn't known about it at the time, but it hadn't mattered to him.

"Qunari have a long-standing dislike of Vints in general, so I grabbed one of the soldiers by the arm and slammed him into a wall, and the fight broke out from there. I lost sight of the Tribune, busy killing or downing the other soldiers. Next thing I know I'm turning and a mace slams into the side of my head. No time to think about it, no time to worry about it. Grabbed the mace in one hand and the Tribune in the other, killed him."

He huffed a laugh. "Poor Krem. He's from Tevinter too; when he was in the army they'd been training him to go to Seheron, where he'd be facing Qunari. And he's shaken, looking at this half-mauled monster who's asking him if he's okay."